


(I ain’t your pal.)

by softly (alexenglish)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, F/M, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Mild Dysphoria, Minor Violence, Soulmates, Trans Character, Trans Female Character, Werewolves, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-07-07 15:39:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15911235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexenglish/pseuds/softly
Summary: on the paper, she had written “you” and she told me “that’s a list of the people who are standing too close.”





	(I ain’t your pal.)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zcinmalik](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zcinmalik/gifts).



> [a softer world project](queerlyalex.tumblr.com/asofterworld)  
> *throws worldbuilding at the wall to see if it sticks* anyway I've had this idea in my head for like 15 billion years and it's finally written! more trans girls in fic 2kforever, amirite?

 

Above the trees the moon is full and fat and bright, but underneath the thick branches, the light barely touches the ground. To well adjusted human eyes, the forest is fully shaded in navy and black, silhouettes barely discernible in darkness, but the wolf knows where she’s going, stalking through the undergrowth.

She’s a formidable size, but she moves gracefully. Her breath doesn’t make a noise. Her large paws never snap a branch or dislodge rocks. The forest keeps singing around her; night time animals and insects still going on as if there isn’t a predator in their midsts.

They know Zayn’s not after them.

There’s a Bronco passing through the ravine. It bears markings that make her fur stand on end and her teeth ache. The moment the truck passed into her territory, her wolf could sense the witch inside -- a plume of magic bursting brightly in her chest until it settled to a dull throbbing, an awareness that she could not shake until she ran to investigate.

She shouldn’t be able to feel the witch or their magic, not with the way the back of the Bronco is lined with iron -- so thick she can practically taste it in the air, sticking to her palate like blood. The heaviness of it should dampen her senses, conceal the witch from her, but this witch is different.

This is _her_ witch.

Not that they’ve met before, but blood born alphas always have witches; and those witches always find their way to the pack by the alpha’s 21st moon; and Zayn’s 21st moon lies vibrant in the sky, watching. And, despite the questionable means by which they’ve arrived, Zayn’s witch seems to have made it to her territory.

By questionable, Zayn means the three hunters in the cab of the Bronco. Hunters that smell of wolf blood, and vampire dust, and all other manner of unholy stink -- the kind that grimly clings to hunters, as if to warn others of their deeds.

There’s too much iron and she’s too far away to know whether or not there’s silver in their guns, but she could care less. She’s far more concerned that the hunters are on her territory to begin with.

On the _full_.

With _her witch_.

There’s no real reason to summon the pack so she continues down the ravine on her own, right ear tracking the way the tires roll steadily over the dirt road that cuts through her land. The closer she gets, the more the iron clogs her nostrils. Gunpowder starts the lace the air, a toxic trail that begs caution. There’s sweat, and grime, and a lazy self-satisfaction to the hunters that indicates they have no idea they’re on pack land.

The closer she gets, the greater the contrast between dark stink of the hunters and the sweet trilling notes of the witch’s magic -- somehow a sound, and a scent, and a taste all at once. And the closer she gets, the more she wants to rip the Bronco apart with her teeth to get to her witch.

She indulges that urge as soon as they hit the curve that wraps around the south end of the hill.

Always one for dramatics, she lets out a loud snarl as she breaks through the trees, hitting the end of the terrace perpendicular to the road and throwing her weight into the back end of the Bronco so hard it spins out.

The tires scrape against hard on the dirt, spraying rocks, barely covering the confused shouts of the hunters inside. It comes to a stop with the back end facing Zayn. She rams the tailgate with her shoulder, denting it in so she can tear it out.

The iron prickles at Zayn’s wolf, freezes her down to her bones. It’s lain thick enough that her witch is completely passed out, open eyes glazed over white.

The hunters are stumbling out of the cab now -- the sharp sensation of silver slides down her spine as bullets get knocked into place -- all she gets is the impression of pale skin and sharp cheekbones and a spill of brown hair before she feels one go for her flank.

Humans always seem so small when she’s a wolf. The hunters are no exception. Despite their sickening stink and their specialized holy weapons and the preternatural speed bestowed upon them through their lineage, they’re still so _small_.

Small enough to bat out of the way with her paws, and send them into the wall of the terrace that she leaped from. Small enough that their knives feel like pin pricks against her flank -- silver or not, they’re just not _large_. Small enough that when she tears one’s shoulder open, the whole blade snaps under the force of her jaw, blood gushing into her mouth as the hunter screams.

She tosses that one to the side.

The other two rush to the injured one’s side, eyeing her warily. They’re worn out already. A tussle on her land during the full is really no contest. Hunters or not, she could probably take them on a new moon with one paw tied behind her back.

“You said it was neutral territory,” one spits angrily, sweat soaked through the front of their shirt. “He’s a fucking alpha, mate.”

Zayn snarls at the assumption, lowering her head like she’s going to charge them; it’s not necessarily a bluff, she just hasn’t decided how much damage she wants to do. Regardless, it makes them stumble back, the poignant scent of fear clinging to each of them.

Each of the hunters, and her witch.

Said witch is edging away from the Bronco, muttering under their breath in a voice that’s deep and slow. The language on their tongue is unknown to Zayn, but she likes the sound of it; likes the way it rises and falls, almost sensual as the witch recites it.

A healing spell.

She doesn’t know how she knows, but she knows it’s to rid witch of the cold energy the iron cast on them; she knows it will work, too. The witch is powerful, she can feel the certainty in the spell just as she can feel the moon in her veins.

She straightens as the witch inches closer to her, focus shifting away from the hunters. They look on, terrified, silence punctuated by the whimpers of the injured one. She’s no longer concerned with them, too busy focusing on the foggy white that hides the witches eyes -- same as in the van, it must be the witch’s magic.

She wonders what spell the witch cast on themself before the iron froze their magic and they fell unconscious. If it was defensive, or if they were trying to fight their way out? They’re taller than she is when she’s human, lean with broad shoulders; they can probably fight. Most witches can protect themselves. Most _have_ to.

The answer is yes, Zayn quickly learns.

She’s paying too much attention to the witch, and not enough to the hunters. She doesn’t even realized the one with the gun has moved until it fires with a loud crack, splitting open the silence of the ravine.

It’s too quick for her to dodge, her mind’s too far gone on the witch, but she doesn’t need to. The bullet slams into the air directly in front of her face, exploding on impact, shards of silver splintering outward. Zayn can’t see the magic, but she feels it -- there and gone, just quick enough to catch the bullet before it dissipates and the silver falls to the dirt.

To the side, Zayn can hear her witch fall to the dirt as well, passed out completely -- from the effort, Zayn assumes -- but she can’t worry about that now. She lunges at the hunters while they’re still staring dumbly at the air like they didn’t _expect_ magic to happen with a witch around.

A chorus of howls rip through the silence following the shot, her pack checking in from where they’re scattered through the forest. She’s too busy ripping apart the hunters to respond, no doubt they’ll head this way at any moment.

It’s a gory scene, one she usually doesn’t like leaving -- but hunters who shoot at alphas on their own territory _during the full_ don’t really deserve mercy. Besides, they called her a _boy_.

By the end of it, she’s panting and covered in blood, thick on her muzzle and down her front. It’s not the best look she’s ever worn. Hopefully her witch doesn’t faint at the sight of blood -- of course, fainting would mean they would have to be conscious and they’re definitely not that.

There’s a sluggish pulse, at least. That’s all she can ask for.

It takes a bit of maneuvering, but she gets her shoulder under the witch and shrugs them onto her back. She really needs to wash off, she hates being covered in blood, so she takes them off the road and heads towards the river.

Hopefully the pack will do something about the bodies. Maybe the _witch_ could do something about the bodies when they’re feeling a little stronger. That could be convenient.

Even moving as carefully as she can, the witch jostles about a bit on her back, but they remain unconscious. Which is alright, she doesn’t need them waking up and freaking out that they’re slung over the back of a massive, blood covered werewolf.

When they hit the bank, Zayn shuffles the witch off her back as delicately as she can before running at the river like a puppy and leaping towards the center.

She shifts when she hits the top of the arc, pulling the wolf back until she’s hidden under Zayn’s breastbone once again. When Zayn hits the water she’s as human as she gets, teeth feeling too large for her mouth and whole body working to suppress her wolf’s magic on the full.

But really, she needs hands to scrub down her skin. The blood’s still there. Always is, even though it doesn’t make sense. A whole wolf disappears into a trim little brown body, but the dirt and the leaves and the blood all stays. It’s dried hard in some places, still sticky in others.

She washes herself down, teases fingers through her hair. It’s long enough to braid now, from the top like Doniya taught her so she does that to keep her fingers occupied while her witch wakes up.

She can sense when they become aware. Their magic itches out, getting a feel for it. Zayn wonders what they feel. If they feel the moon like she does, the open-wound ache of it in their heart; if they feel the land, the soothing old power that lives beneath; if they feel her the way she feels them, a bright awareness and a sweetness on her tongue.

She wades closer slowly, watching them sit up. They lean back on their hands and tilt their head to the sky, eyes closed. The full moon bathes them in light, sharpens all their edges and gets lost in the curls that fall around their ears.

Their pulse gets stronger and stronger each passing moment. They must be powerful, if they’re able to restore their magic so quickly. Of course, if they are Zayn’s witch then the land will ensure they are healed in no time at all.

Patience is not Zayn’s virtue, so she only allows a couple more long moments to pass before she interrupts.

“You’re awake,” she says. It always feels strange to speak after a shift, like she’s nearly forgotten how, voice strangled and rough. It brightens up when she’s human, but despite wearing her skin, she’s barely human at all.

The witch yelps and scrambles to their feet, anxiety spiking in the air around them as their heart goes into double time. They’re tall when they stand, larger than Zayn now. They look like a Disney prince with their curls, and their soft eyes, and their pink mouth dropped open in surprise.

She feels the way they look at her -- just like everyone looks at her. She feels their eyes snag on the sharp edge of her jaw, and the bump on her throat, and the wideness of her shoulders before they slide down to where she’s curvy and soft; before they slide down to --

The witch’s eyes snap up, guilt written all over their face. They look a bit terrified -- as if Zayn doesn’t _know_ she’s stood in knee-deep river water, completely naked -- and a bit flush.

“Never seen a girl with a cock before?” Zayn asks, baring her teeth. It’s taken plenty of practice, she’s managed to make it sound more teasing than defensive.

Some days, her lungs still shrink when she says it, like she’s 15 and trying so desperately to understand what her body wants from her, but today she’s fine. Today she _is_ teasing, and the look on the witch’s face is absolutely delightful.

“N-no,” the witch says, hands up defensively. She doesn’t need preternatural senses to know that the witch is anxious. They fidget as they stand there, shoulders tight and tense. “I mean, yes. I mean, no. They said -- they said you were --”

“A boy?”

“Pretty,” the witch says, lamely. It’s a lie, Zayn can hear it in their skipping pulse and the thin way they speak, but it’s charming the way the lie saves them both from an unsavory conversation.

“They call me Zayn,” she says, making it easy for them as she makes for the bank again. There’s a pile of rocks that look quite comfy conveniently located next to the witch. The wolf is trembling under her skin impatiently, but she needs to talk even if all she wants to do right now is run.

The witch squints at her. “And you’re…?”

“A girl,” Zayn says, even though she knows that’s not what they’re asking. She’s being a shit now, seeing how deep she can get the witch to blush. She likes when the witch blushes, and she can get quite the reaction if the red of their cheeks is anything to go by.

It might be less about what she says, and more about the fact that she’s very naked and about to sit next to them, but Zayn can take responsibility for all of it.

“I mean, _what_.” The witch gestures at all of Zayn. There’s another guilty look and a wince as their eyes follow the path of their hand.

“Alpha Malik.” Zayn laughs as the witch’s eyes go wide and their mouth once again drops open in surprise.

She’s not sure how it’s _unexpected_ , considering their fates are destined to cross and yadda yadda. As if it’s a _coincidence_ the witch ended up in the back of the hunter’s Bronco, and those hunters were stupid enough not to double-check boundary lines before entering an unmarked forest on a full moon, _but_ …

Stranger things have happened, she’s sure. Magic, and all.

“And yourself?” Zayn prompts, when the witch doesn’t offer a response.

Their mouth shuts with an audible click before they hold out their hand. “My name is Harry,” the witch says, adorably naive. “A witch. Your witch, I guess.”

“We have fairies,” Zayn says, taking the witch’s hand. Instead of shaking it, she pulls them in close. They stumble towards her, and then they’re close enough that she can feel their warmth and finally see that their eyes are deep, deep green. “Be careful with your name. Don’t want to get spirited away before we can do this right.”

“I will,” Harry says, staring down at Zayn with an intensity that she can barely handle. Whether it’s on purpose, or simply how the witch looks at people, Zayn can’t say, but she’s an alpha and she does not look away first.

When their gaze lowers, she grins.

Submission is a formality, really. As soon as they bind, they’re equals in every sense.

With their hands still clasped, she can feel the connection between them. She can feel her wolf, and the witch’s magic, and a deeper magic. Deeper and older, the kind that inspires a witch to find their anchor in a wolf, and a wolf to find their humanity in a witch. Dual spirits the serve and protect each other while they both dwell in the world.

Zayn can’t help herself, she pulls Harry in further and nuzzles their cheeks together. It makes her flush stupidly, and makes Harry’s heart start beating wildly, but she refuses to quell her excitement.

Harry doesn’t pull back, and Zayn’s lips catch on their jaw. She realizes she’s terrified of getting this wrong, but she nudges Harry again, just to see.

“Is that a hint?” Harry asks, voice rough and low in a way that thrills down Zayn’s spine.

“I’m not one for pomp and circumstance,” Zayn admits quietly. There’s a fluttering in her stomach that’s nearly making her sick; a feeling of elation that’s making her dizzy. “Don’t even know what a proper binding ceremony would look like, being an orphan and all. Never seen it.”

“Me either,” Harry says, which piques Zayn’s interest, but she doesn’t want to derail what’s happening. They have plenty of time to share their tragic backstories after tonight.

“So like,” Zayn licks her lips. They’re close enough that her tongue brushes Harry’s bottom lip, making them inhale sharply. “We could skip that.”

She feels a grin against her mouth.

“Yeah, we could,” Harry agrees, so Zayn kisses her witch.

**Author's Note:**

> Harry is a cis dude in this, Zayn just doesn't assume his gender and that is why it's tagged M/F despite GN pronouns, incase you were wondering, which you probably weren't but SHRUG.
> 
>  
> 
> [reblog on tumblr](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com/post/177793377607/i-aint-your-pal-zaynharry-29k)


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